Fair warning: this dips into the wonderful realm of medical fetish related shenanigans. Nothing too drastic, but you know. John is a doctor. It's high time we took advantage of that fact. Also lots of filthy sex that I'm past the point of even trying to apologize for. I think I've successfully killed off what was left of my sense of shame. I blame you people and your lovely enabling (you know who you are). Enjoy!
"I want to play doctor."
Sherlock said it calmly and nonchalantly in between bites of Chinese food. Really, John was thankful he hadn't been chewing on something at that particular moment. He might have choked.
It was just past midnight. Sherlock had finally caught the serial killer he'd been chasing all week. It was time to slow him down and put him into recuperation mode. John knew Sherlock hadn't eaten or slept in days. So the first order of business was food. He probably should have said something when Sherlock ordered a beer with his meal. Or perhaps stopped it at the second one. But now Sherlock was on his fifth—and even though John felt incredibly guilty—just seeing Sherlock with slightly glassy eyes and pink cheeks made his cock twitch and start to swell.
They were in a back corner of the mostly empty restaurant. It was just them and a few drunks near the front. John took his moment to breathe and stare down at his lo-mein.
"I never knew you had a medical fetish," he snorted. Because really, what other way did one respond to such a statement?
"I didn't either. But I was going through your things the other day and I had a wank while wearing your stethoscope. I think it did something for me… is there any way you can bring some medical paraphernalia from the surgery? I think I'd rather like to wear a hospital gown while you give me a prostate examination. I trust you'll be very thorough." Sherlock bit down on his lip and cocked an eyebrow.
God fucking damn it.
This was not John's fault. I mean, when Sherlock started saying things like that—he could probably have anybody in all of London on their knees.
But for some bizarre reason, he wanted John. At least, his lizard brain did. Because whenever he got properly knackered, he started pawing at the good doctor, and actually begging for his cock. And then there was that one time on the couch a few weeks ago, when Sherlock hadn't been drunk. But they didn't talk about it. John was under the impression they were pretending it had never happened.
"So you want to dress up in a hospital gown, have me put on some rubber gloves, and then finger you until you come?" John asked as quietly as he could. He was hyper aware of their surroundings. Perhaps having an audience—even if they weren't paying attention—brought the spotlight in on what an abrupt left-turn his and Sherlock's relationship had taken along the way.
He never used to say things like that in public places. Especially not to his flat mates. Then again, he and Sherlock had already thoroughly violated the boundary that people in a flatshare are not supposed to cross. If the boundary was a material object, rather than a metaphorical one, they would have actually shagged on top of it by this point.
"Oh yes," Sherlock practically whimpered. "Do you think we could stop by the surgery on the way home? You could just nip in and take a gown…"
"No." John's heart really wasn't in the refusal, and Sherlock knew it, because he was smirking. And terribly wonderful things tended to happen when he smirked like that.
"Come on, John. I'll be the most pliant and cooperative patient you've ever had," Sherlock purred.
"That's a dirty lie. You'll be shouting orders at me the entire time. No hospital gown, and that's final," John said in a crisp, all-business tone.
Sherlock shifted in his chair slightly. Ah. So John wasn't the only one with an erection. Good.
"Do you have any surgical gloves at home?" Sherlock had stopped eating, and was simply fingering his beer bottle. "I might have some around that I've forgotten about—for handling chemicals and such."
"If not that, there should be some in the first-aid, kit." John was admirably calm on the surface. But his mind was racing. Why were they discussing this in public? This wasn't what normal people talked about over dinner. Then again… normal people didn't have dinner at midnight just after placing a mass murderer behind bars either.
"What about a lab coat? And you must wear your stethoscope." Sherlock's foot was gently nudging against John's shin under the table.
"You're really serious about this?" John's mouth was oddly dry.
"I wouldn't joke about such things, doctor."
John shivered slightly. This was a bad idea. This was borderline unethical, wasn't it? John actually was a doctor. He should not participate in ridiculously sexualized role-play about it with his lunatic flatmate.
Of course, this was probably just a passing fancy. One week Sherlock was fixated on the idea of being choked, the next he was demanding that John learn how to dirty talk in French. The longer it all went on, the more colorful Sherlock's requests became. John rarely minded.
But this? He shouldn't do this. It would cause a lot of problems with his career if he started getting turned on every time somebody referred to him as Doctor Watson just because Sherlock started calling him that when he was about to come.
However, the way Sherlock was looking at him, how could he really be expected to resist?
When Sherlock was aroused, he flushed slightly, painting an irresistible pinkness over those bitingly sharp cheekbones. His breath got quick and fluttery, and he would unconsciously wet his lips.
"Fine then. Shall I get the check?" John asked evenly. Perfectly aware that every word he spoke was a nail in his coffin.
"No, let me."
And Sherlock was already spinning up towards the front, waving his debit card at the cashier eagerly. John really should be worried about what he'd just signed himself up for. Instead he took a moment to calm himself before standing and walking across the restaurant. He was still half-hard.
He really needed to invest in a coat like Sherlock's. He imagined a long coat like that could do wonders for hiding erections.
Sherlock practically ran up the stairs into their flat. John followed, at an only slightly less eager pace. Before he could even ask where they were going to do this, Sherlock darted into the kitchen and began clearing things off the table. Even if the taller man was a bit unsteady on his feet with the alcohol, John could tell he was being particularly careful while picking up the beakers and test tubes filled with god knows what.
Normally, John would have made some sort of protest, like—we eat at that table. But considering all the dangerous chemicals that were sprawled across the polished hardwood at any given time, he felt such an objection might be ridiculous.
"Go change." Sherlock set his microscope gingerly on the counter by the sink.
John didn't need to be told twice. He climbed the stairs to his room and quickly slipped off the jumper he'd been wearing. He left on the blue button down, and hastily pulled on the white lab coat he sometimes wore at work. Then he draped the stethoscope around his neck and grabbed a clipboard out of his briefcase—mostly as an afterthought.
Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the kitchen table, still fully dressed in one of his darker suits. There was a box of nitrile gloves, and a tube of lubricant placed on the kitchen counter.
For a moment, John couldn't help but feel overwhelmed at the utter bizarreness of the situation. He felt a twinge of embarrassment rise in his chest. What the fuck was he doing?
But Sherlock was just staring at him, waiting, and well—who could say no to that face?
"Now then, Mr. … Holmes, is it?" John asked looking down at his empty clipboard. "What am I seeing you about today?"
A small grin slipped across Sherlock's face before he once again fell into a rather somber expression.
"I believe I'm due for a physical examination."
"Ah yes, here it is. Very well, then. I'll need you to strip for me. Shirt off first." John felt a bit ridiculous as the words came out of his mouth. But when Sherlock calmly slipped out of his blazer and began unbuttoning his light grey shirt, well, John's cock was getting hard again.
He wasn't sure whether or not Sherlock really wanted him to go through a full physical. It was unlikely that he'd actually have the focus for it—when Sherlock was drunk he was quite impatient. So John decided to go through the motions a little bit, just to see how Sherlock responded. He stepped in between Sherlock's spread thighs. Far closer than would be normally proper.
The taller man shivered slightly at the cold press of metal against his skin. John placed the stethoscope right over Sherlock's heart and listened to it race.
It was strangely intimate. Listening to Sherlock's heart pound away. Even though he knew better, even though he had a wealth of experience surrounding Sherlock's warm and perfectly functioning body, sometimes it was still difficult to think of him as a human. Sherlock Holmes had blood pulsing through his veins like anybody else—all the same internal machinery as ordinary people. But somehow it all came together differently, to make him brilliant, and insane, and far too attractive for John's own good.
"Take normal breaths." John said, keeping up his businesslike tone. Sherlock complied, each little puff of respiration smelling vaguely of the crisp ale he'd been drinking. He listened carefully to Sherlock's lungs, trying to push down the concern he always felt about the empty packs of cigarettes he occasionally found in the rubbish.
But Sherlock's lungs sounded perfectly fine.
John looked down. He could see the outline of Sherlock's cock pressing eagerly against his trousers. Their faces were hovering close together. He was torn between continuing in the odd little scene they'd already established, and just saying fuck it all—grabbing Sherlock, and kissing him like mad.
If there was one thing John Watson prided himself on, however, it was an unflappable sense of professionalism.
He stepped back, and was perhaps just a bit pleased at the way Sherlock leaned forward, following him, until he caught himself.
"Now then," John set the clipboard aside, reaching for the box of nitrile gloves," turn around and pull down your trousers. Pants as well, I'm afraid. Then lean over the table, please."
He pulled a glove onto his right hand and watched as Sherlock unbuckled his belt, unbuttoned his trousers and pulled the zip down. The cheeky bastard caught John's eye as he slid the waistband of his trousers down, along with his pants, as slowly as he possibly could.
Tease.
Sherlock let his clothes pool around his ankles and turned around. He leaned over the table, propping himself up with his forearms stretched out beneath him.
John bit back a tiny gasp, like he always did, when Sherlock was sprawled out in front of him. But he opened the tube of lubricant and squeezed the viscous substance onto his gloved fingers. Sherlock's body was all tense muscles and anticipation as John once again stepped up close to him. He used one hand to gently pull Sherlock's arse cheeks apart, while he circled his entrance with his index finger.
Sherlock moaned, and tried to push back, but John grabbed a hold of his hip to keep him still and continued to tease at his hole.
This was not proper procedure at all. It appeared that his unflappable sense of professionalism went out the window when certain consulting detectives bent over tables and presented themselves in an utterly wanton manner.
"You're going to feel a slight pressure," John's voice was much lower than normal, "but just try to relax."
"Whatever you say, doctor."
Ugh.
John's cock throbbed. It was going to be damn hard not to just fuck the beautiful man beneath him right there on the table. But Sherlock had asked to come on John's fingers. John usually gave Sherlock exactly what he wanted
Slowly, almost gently, he slid his index finger into Sherlock's entrance. He paused for a moment, allowing for him to adjust to the intrusion. He kept a firm grip on the taller man's hipbone to keep him from bucking back.
It was only a quick feel-around before John found it. The wonderful little bump full of nerve endings. He brushed across it gently, and Sherlock squirmed.
"Everything appears to be in working order," John said as calmly as he could. Though he could tell he did sound a bit feverish. Just watching his own finger slide in and out of Sherlock's body was entirely too erotic. It was difficult to keep his breath from hitching.
"Are you sure?" Sherlock rumbled.
"No harm in double or triple checking."
John lazily squirmed another finger into Sherlock's tight little hole. The constricting heat around him was lovely. He grazed against Sherlock's prostate again, and the other man groaned.
"Fuck."
"Is something the matter, Mr. Holmes?"
"Yes, doctor… there's an unpleasant pressure building inside me. I'm aroused. It's your fault. I think you should help fix the problem."
"And how might I do that?"
"By making me come my brains out."
Well then, John didn't need telling twice. Gentle grazes against the sweet spot turned into steady, insistent motions. Sherlock groaned and panted beneath him, writhing on the table. It was sinful how fucking sexy he looked, all slick, and sweaty—pale skin flushed with arousal.
"More," Sherlock grunted.
John happily obliged with another finger. Sherlock's muscles were fluttering and clenching around his knuckles enticingly, almost like they were trying to pull him in deeper. John was relentless. Rubbing against the hard little knot inside Sherlock. Enjoying the way each motion made the taller man twitch and try to push back against him.
"Doctor Watson," Sherlock whined, "fuck me."
"That is decidedly not part of a physical examination," John chuckled.
"But I need it. I need to feel your fat cock inside me, filling me up, slamming into me so that I come across the kitchen table. You want to see that, don't you?"
John really did. But it was quite a lot of fun teasing Sherlock like this. He didn't want to stop just yet.
"Beg for it," he grinned.
"Please, doctor. Please fuck me. I want you to leave bruises on my hip bones so that I can look at them tomorrow while you're at work, and remember what you did. I'll press them so they hurt a little bit next time I touch myself."
John didn't know how a person went about acquiring more self-control. But it seemed like a thing that maybe he should look into. Because Sherlock hadn't begged all that much and he was already unzipping his trousers and slicking up his cock with more lube. He peeled off the glove and tossed it in the rubbish before positioning himself at Sherlock's entrance.
"Oh yes," Sherlock moaned as John slid into him.
John was already painfully aroused. He had to pause for a moment, lingering in the tight heat and trying to calm himself down. Sherlock already seemed pretty on-edge. So he hoped it wouldn't take long.
He began to thrust, fast and hard, and Sherlock was making all sorts of wonderful noises to egg him on. Pushing back against his thrusts. John had a firm grip of his hips, and was digging in his fingernails, trying to leave marks because Sherlock had said he wanted them.
"Oh god," Sherlock gasped. "Oh fuck. Just like that."
John kept the angle and increased the pace. Sherlock was practically shouting, and he really hoped Mrs. Hudson was either asleep already, or had her telly on. She rarely complained about the noise. But she did give him knowing looks, and cheeky little winks—and really, that was much worse.
He could already feel Sherlock starting to tense. He was close. John raked his nails down the pale skin of Sherlock's back, leaving tiny red scratch-marks.
"You feel so good," Sherlock breathed.
He pushed back hard against John's increasingly frantic thrusts. And he raised himself up slightly. So he was supporting himself on his hands, but still bent over.
"I'm going to come, John," Sherlock made a wonderful keening noise before continuing, "are you going to lick it up afterwards?"
"Yes." John said it without thinking. Really, he probably wouldn't. Not knowing what sort of experiments had been set on the table since it was last cleaned. But he did like the idea of licking Sherlock's warm ejaculate off the cold, polished wood.
And Sherlock apparently liked the idea too. Because he was gasping, and trembling, and then he went completely stiff, and John felt his internal muscles spasm around him.
John didn't last long after that. It was only another thirty seconds or so before he groaned, and shuddered, and was drowning in a tidal wave of endorphins. His whole body was tingling. His arms were still wrapped around Sherlock.
"Glorious," Sherlock declared hazily.
John had to agree. He leaned to the side slightly, so he could see the table top. Covered in gooey white puddles of Sherlock's come.
Part of him wanted to clean it up now that the haze of arousal was slowly lifting. Part of him wanted to take a picture.
After the debauched little tabletop shag, Sherlock slept for thirty-six hours. That was his pattern. To go full-tilt until the case was solved, then fizzle out entirely.
When he finally emerged from his bedroom, Sherlock still looked quite groggy. John knew better than to try to engage him in conversation. He just made him a cup of tea, and a slice of toast, and left him to play his violin all day.
Sometimes he was amazed by how easy it was to gauge Sherlock's mood by his music selection.
Paganini meant—I'm thinking about something exceedingly complicated.
Bach meant—in a sulk, don't bother me.
Handel meant he was close to solving something.
Shubert meant he was feeling nostalgic.
Vivaldi meant he wanted to have sex later that night.
On that particular day, however, it was Beethoven, and John still hadn't figured out what Beethoven meant. It could be a lot of different things. Something as simple as the fact that Sherlock was hungry and had no intentions of doing anything about it, to something as complicated as the frozen depths of Sherlock's endless boredom. Sometimes Beethoven meant Sherlock wouldn't talk for days. Other times it meant he was moments away from raiding their now well-supplied liquor cabinet and slamming John up against the wall in a violent kiss.
John had work that evening, so he didn't find out what the Beethoven had meant. When he got home at 22:00, Sherlock was nowhere in sight. His violin was back in its case.
The door to Sherlock's room remained closed the next day. John couldn't tell whether he was sleeping or having some sort of private crisis. He nearly knocked and asked, but stopped himself just in time.
Another day passed. He heard more Beethoven from behind Sherlock's closed door. There were takeaway boxes in the refrigerator. So at least that was evidence that Sherlock was eating.
John woke with a start as the mattress moved underneath him. He blinked blearily and managed to make out a dark shape sinking down on the bed next to him. For a moment, the panic of adrenaline still surged through his veins. Then he gave himself a mental check. He was in his own flat, in his own bed, and the warm lump that had just clambered under his duvet was almost definitely his insomniac flatmate.
He glanced over at the clock on the bedside table. It was 2:03 in the morning. John had to be at the surgery in six hours, which meant waking up in five.
John debated rolling over and falling back asleep. He really did. But then Sherlock squirmed closer. He could feel the body heat radiating off him. They weren't touching, but were probably only a few centimeters apart.
The doctor let out a small yawn, and kissed the notion of a full night's rest goodbye.
"Trouble sleeping?" He asked groggily.
"It was cold downstairs."
John rolled his eyes even though Sherlock couldn't see it. "You've been drinking, haven't you?"
There was no reply. Sherlock didn't smell like alcohol. But then again, he was rather partial to vodka when it was late in the night, because of its lack of aroma.
Sherlock rolled slightly, draping an arm over John's chest. His face was pressed into John's shoulder. The taller man did not seem to be wearing a shirt.
John reached over to trace gentle circles across Sherlock's back. The other man jumped slightly at the contact, and tensed for a few moments before relaxing.
Oh. Not drunk, then. Well… that was new.
"Is this ok?" John murmured.
"Yes."
Sherlock shifted so he was halfway on top of John. Oh my. Completely naked. John could feel Sherlock's cock rapidly filling out against his thigh. Usually, John slept without any clothes on, but Sherlock was always wandering about the flat in pajamas. This had to be purposeful nudity.
Wait—what?
"John," that tiny whispered word shot through the doctor's body like liquid fire. He had trouble breathing for a moment.
Sherlock rocked his hips against John's leg ever so slightly. And god fucking damn it. How was it even possible for a person to be so ridiculously sexy at such an awful hour of the morning? It was really quite difficult not to just flip Sherlock over and have him right there. But of course, John couldn't do that. Well… he really shouldn't.
He still didn't know what the rules were about sober touching. It almost never happened. He didn't want to bring it up. There'd been a lot of great sloppy drunk sex. And John figured, why fix what wasn't exactly broken?
But then, here Sherlock was, naked in his bed, with a hard-on. What the fuck was he supposed to think? They really should have a talk about this one of these days. John was opening his mouth to say something. Before he could, Sherlock started slowly rutting against his leg and well—that kind of killed the train of thought.
The taller man lifted his head so he was staring down through the darkness. He pressed a soft kiss against John's lips, and the doctor just melted.
"John, please." God damn it. There it was again. That voice. The things it did to him. It was decidedly different from the harsh, rumbling baritone that Sherlock used to boss him around on cases—which was also different from gritty commanding voice Sherlock used when he was screaming at John to fuck him harder—which was also different from the high-pitched whining Sherlock usually fell into when he was about to come.
Perhaps this particular voice turned him on so much because he almost never heard it. Gentle, quiet, pleading. It really was enough to drive a man completely up the wall.
"Oh god yes," John found himself saying. "What do you want?"
"I…" Sherlock's breathing hitched a little bit. He shifted further on top of John so their cocks were aligned, and resumed his slow thrusting motions. John could feel him trembling. His breath ghosted across John's face in feverish little pants.
It was the most beautiful kind of torture. To just lie there and let Sherlock slide against him in uncertain motions.
"You're so fucking sexy," John groaned.
Sherlock responded with a tiny kiss that somehow managed to make John's skin feel electric.
John gently placed his hands on Sherlock's hips, which caused them to stutter slightly. Sherlock buried his head in the pillow, and then resumed his motion, at a much faster pace.
God. The noises he was making. Tiny little grunts, right next to John's ear.
Skin sliding against sweaty skin.
Head pounding. Hearts racing. Every nerve buzzing in anticipation. Heat building—twisting and writhing in John's belly.
John's hands began to migrate south of their own accord. And before he knew it, he had two handfuls of Sherlock's ridiculously plush arse, and he was squeezing.
John slipped a finger between Sherlock's arse cheeks. He didn't even push inside. Just brushed against Sherlock's hole. The other man gasped, and shuddered, and then they were both very sticky. John teetered over the edge after him.
Sherlock lay there breathing heavily for a few minutes before rolling off to the other side of the bed. John really wasn't sure what protocol was here. They'd passed out drunkenly together too many times to count.
But this particular situation had never come up before.
Really, John's body decided for him. He was dead tired. After wiping up some of the mess on his stomach with the first item of clothing his hands made contact with on the floor next to him, he lay back down. His eyes fluttered closed, and his limbs felt incredibly heavy. He was just beginning to slip back into the fog of dreamless sleep when the mattress moved again.
"Do you ever take showers that are too warm to be completely comfortable?" Sherlock's voice drifted across the quiet of the room.
"Um… I dunno. Sometimes I suppose," John mumbled. His brain was barely functioning—muddled in a haze of sex and exhaustion.
"That's what it feels like."
"Sorry?" John blinked. What were they talking about? It seemed important.
"When you touch me. My skin gets too warm, and it feels achy, but it's not entirely objectionable."
John digested that for a minute. Such a sentence seemed to have multiple layers of meaning. Meaning he was supposed to glean implicitly, but was having a lot of trouble with in his current intellectual state.
"So—it feels good?" He turned his head to look over to Sherlock's silhouette in the darkness.
Sherlock let out a long breath. "It's right on the edge between pleasant and too much to cope with."
"I see…" John really didn't. But it sounded like a good thing to say.
"What does it feel like to you?"
The gears in John's mind spun for a moment. Nobody had ever asked him to describe how sex felt before. The sensation seemed like generally common knowledge. How could he even put it into words?
"I dunno. It's like—a really good tingling."
Sherlock snorted. "And you call yourself a writer."
"It's two o'clock in the bloody morning! What do you want from me?"
Sherlock reached out and grabbed a hold of John's hand, interlacing their fingers. It wasn't actually cuddling, but it felt a lot like it. John squeezed Sherlock's hand slightly. He knew he was bound to start drifting off to sleep again. But he did his best to stay awake a little longer.
"Do you know what today is?" Sherlock's voice was exceedingly quiet. John almost didn't hear him.
"Tuesday?"
"Tuesday the thirty first. It's been four months."
John didn't know Sherlock had been counting. Was he supposed to have been counting as well? Did you count how many days you'd been shagging your flatmate? Or… had they become something else while John wasn't paying attention?
"Well, cheers to that," John chuckled awkwardly, "I'd say it's been a rather good four months."
"Yes… it has… goodnight, John."
"Goodnight, Sherlock."
Special thanks to wholockian729. Her computer is finally fixed and she edited this at lightning speed.
Reviews, follows and favorites make me squeal with glee and dance around the house. I can't actually dance. Mostly I just flail my limbs around joyfully.
I think there's at least one more chapter of this. There might be two. The semester is almost over at my University, so I'm shooting for having another posting in two weeks, but perhaps sooner.
xoxo